


debut

by verity



Series: the shape you are shifting into [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha Mila Babicheva, Alpha/Beta, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Gender Issues, Self-Discovery, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 22:26:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12443091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: Sara shifts in Mila's arms. "You know how you feel about Victor.""Yeah?" Mila says as she runs her fingers through Sara's hair."It doesn't feel like gold if I didn't take it from you."





	debut

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to forochel and thedeadparrot for their feedback on this! originally this fic was longer and included... a lot of porn... which I will be posting as a separate fic with a very different tone.

They don't give out medals for fourth place, but skating against Victor, it's as good as bronze. That's what Mila says to the media after the GPF, anyway. Luck and enough bland smiling get her away from the press and into the shower before they can start badgering her about Yura. You'd think journalists on home turf would be better about it, but usually they're the worst.

Katsuki is lacing his sneakers when Mila emerges with wet hair and a too-small towel wrapped around her waist. She heads to her locker without disturbing him. After a competition, emotions are always high, and she's mindful of being the only alpha in the room. Not that anyone else here can scent it.

The outer door smacks against the concrete wall, letting in a gust of loud chatter, and then the hinges on the inner door creak. Michele's face is still covered in sweat, his bangs plastered to his forehead, a flush on his cheeks. "Hey, Babicheva," he says. "Are you free tonight?"

Mila digs her bra out of the mess in her locker. "I'm not your babysitter."

"So, are you free?"

"Sara's an adult."

"So?"

Mila ignores him while she clasps the band and scoops her breasts into the cups. She stretches, after, elongating her spine.

"Look." Michele's voice pitches low as he sidles up to her. "You know what these guys are like. Not—" He gestures to the locker room, so presumably Katsuki; Victor and Chris are as gay as those betas in _The Birdcage_ and Altin is, well. Single-minded. "But the press, some of the guys in juniors…"

"What, Nekola?" Mila snorts. "He's a baby."

"Well, he's a man," Michele says, adopting an unreasonably reasonable tone.

If there's any man here fixated on Sara, it's her brother, but Mila knows better than to say that. "We were going to hang out tonight anyway," Mila says. "Don't get so worked up over it."

* * *

The awards ceremony is right after the Men's free, so Mila heads back to the stands to watch. She's not wearing a medal, but she didn't have to change back into her clammy free skate costume, either. Yura looks like he's freezing his ass off.

Yakov puts his hand on her shoulder as Yura skates toward the Junior Ladies' podium. "You're going to have to work harder," he says. "This is a strong beginning, but next year, Yuri—"

"I know," Mila says. "You don't have to tell me."

She claps when Yura climbs up to the top of the podium, of course. She claps for Sara, she claps for Victor. She even claps for the petite Thai skater at the top of the Junior Men's podium. Mila can't get bitter about it. Not if she wants to win.

* * *

Alphas and omegas are relatively rare in most parts of the world; that the Russian national team has one of each on the roster is unusual. Mila and Yura both started in Juniors Ladies', thanks to Yura's early presentation and Mila's late one. The new rules mean that they'll face each other again in senior competition.

The rules that allow male omegas to compete in Men's singles aren't really that new, but Yura's the first omega to debut in Men's in a decade. Even the mainstream press has covered it. Wedged between Victor's golden reign and the controversy of Yura's move, Mila's debut this year barely rated a mention.

* * *

By the time Sara gets away from the press, it's late enough that the only places still open are bars. Mila pushes herself up from her slouch against the wall as Sara approaches. "Want to come back to mine and order room service?"

"Hmm." Sara pretends to consider the offer. "Go out and deal with Mickey shoving boys out of my way or… sure. Let's."

Mila has a single, because who else is going to room with her? It's small, but it has all the amenities: clean glasses and a mini-fridge to keep the vodka in. Mila pours them a finger each while Sara hangs her jacket in the closet. She's just wearing leggings and a short t-shirt dress underneath, but somehow she manages to make that look chic and elegant. Maybe it's the way the dress nips in at her narrow waist and stretches across her bust. Maybe it's that everything looks good on her.

"Cheers," Mila says, holding out a glass to Sara. "Here's to the best in ladies' figure skating."

Sara takes the glass and clinks it against Mila's. "I'll toast to that."

The vodka goes down easy. Let no one say that Mila doesn't have good taste, even if it's inherited from Victor. "Congratulations."

"Thanks," Sara says. "It's not the same without you."

Mila sighs. "I need more vodka for that."

They order room service first, like responsible adults. Steak and ice cream. "I'm starving," Sara says dreamily, sprawling over the bed next to Mila. "I can't believe how long I've been awake."

Mila lets Sara snuggle into her side, body warm and familiar. Sara's been sneaking up to her room since they were in juniors together and Mila was the one scooping up gold medals at competitions. Michele follows Sara almost everywhere, but he can't follow her on the ice and he won't follow her into Mila's room. What a claustrophobic life. Sara doesn't usually seem to mind. She rolls onto her side and throws an arm across Mila, resting her cheek against Mila's shoulder. Her long hair smells clean, stripped of fragrance by the locker room's generic scent-neutralizing shampoo. Mila presses her lips to the top of Sara's head.

Sara wrinkles her nose. "That tickles." She doesn't move away.

Eventually, room service arrives. They eat in bed: ice cream first, quick before it melts, and then the steak. Mila can't finish. Maybe it's the ice cream sinking in her belly, or maybe it's the sense that she shouldn't be celebrating at all. She finished off the podium. She hasn't done that in a long time.

"Are you okay, Mila?" Sara's empty plate is in her lap.

"Yeah." Mila stares at her abandoned steak. "I didn't expect to—" The sentence hangs for a long moment.

"Lose?"

"Yes. Or—I thought it would be just Victor."

Sara tugs Mila's plate away and puts it on top of the cart with her own. "Would that have been better?"

"Not really." Mila laughs. "I wouldn't have been surprised, though." Sara is beginning the prime of her competitive years right now, but Mila is a few years away. 

They cuddle together in the bed again, sleepy and more or less full. Maybe they'll wake up starving in the middle of the night and have to call for room service again, but Mila has some protein bars in her bag. The glamorous life of an athlete: that's for Victor, not for her.

Sara shifts in Mila's arms. "You know how you feel about—him."

"Yeah?" Mila says as she runs her fingers through Sara's hair.

"It doesn't feel like gold if I didn't take it from you."

Sara's admission gentles the burn of losing. Mila feels soft all over and freshly possessive. She wraps her arms tightly around Sara and tries not to think about what else she wants. Something that might further separate them, change what's between them—as if that hasn't changed irrevocably already.

* * *

"You smell gross," Yura says as he jostles for a place at the breakfast buffet line.

"Whatever." Mila holds out her plate to the man behind the egg station. "Scrambled, please? Two servings?" She scoots over to the sausage station, where her blush can be wiped out by the red glow of the food lights. Outside, the winter sun is just beginning to rise. She's already put in an hour on the ice, but she hasn't been able to bring herself to shower.

Yura catches up to her, his own plate full of butter-yellow eggs. "Like that Crispino b—"

"Don't finish that sentence if you enjoy your life or having a dick," Mila says calmly. "Four sausages, thank you."

They eat in silence at the table in the back with Georgi and Anya, who appear to be off-again this week. It would be less annoying if they weren't Russia's reigning pairs skaters. As it is, Georgi is glooming into his tea and Anya is picking at her plate. More eggs. It's only December, but Mila is already sick of hotel scrambled eggs. She salts and peppers hers and starts shoveling them into her mouth. There's no way to hit her target protein intake otherwise.

When Mila gets up, Yura follows her, leaving behind half of his bacon to trail her into the lobby. He grabs her by the elbow when they're out of earshot of the table and says quietly in Russian, "I don't like how you smell."

Mila turns toward the elevators. "It's none of your business." She feels hot all over. Angry and—she can't let herself think about it. About tonight.

"You don't get it." The tips of Yura's ears are pink. "You smell like alpha. Not mine. It's not good."

Ahead of them, one of the elevators dings. Mila strides toward the opening doors, which discharge a sea of faceless tourists and Giacometti. She lifts her hand in a wave as they pass, and he nods back. Yura's probably the only person here who can smell her aside from Katsuki's coach and the French ice dance team. Mila looks normal, probably, sweaty in her tracksuit from exercise; it's Yura who is flushed and staring.

"Get in here before someone thinks I'm taking advantage of you," Mila hisses as she steps into the vacant elevator. As soon as Yura's inside, she jams the close door button with her thumb before anyone can follow them in. She drops her voice. "Is my scent—doing something. To you."

Yura crosses his arms and leans back against the rail. "It makes my skin crawl. Wash it off."

Mila tilts her head against the cool metal wall.

"Anybody could smell you," Yura says begrudgingly. "You smell like you want to claim someone. It's not that it's her. Just—I don't want to be around it."

"Nobody is claiming you unless you want it," Mila says. "You're a baby, I'd fight them."

Yura glares at her. "Fuck off."

"I know you can handle things yourself," Mila says. "I'd do it, though."

Mila's dad is an alpha. He raised her like he raised her beta sisters—like she couldn't take care of herself. Yura's not the only who's gotten treated differently since his presentation.

"You can't claim a _beta_ ," Yura says.

"Maybe I don't want to claim anyone," Mila says. "You'll understand when you're older."

* * *

Some people use exhibition skates to show off their artistry, some their athleticism. Mila usually focuses on spins and step sequences; Victor's are always masterful things designed to showcase his poise and long limbs, heavier on the jumps. This year, Yakov had him choreograph all three of her programs.

"I'll make you competitive," Victor said. "Show me what you've got."

So Mila did her two quads, her triple axel, none of which she was strong enough to use before her presentation. Her landing on the quad loop was still a little shaky. She skated to the boards after, trying to look more confident than she felt. "I'm picking the music."

"Of course," said Victor.

They agreed on classical pieces for her short program and her free skate—Holst and Prokofiev—but Mila picked an instrumental piece from a contemporary movie soundtrack for her exhibition. Victor listened to it a few times through, thoughtful. If he wasn't pasting on a smile for the public, he usually looked tired or focused on his work; something about this softer face soothed her. "It's very delicate," he said eventually. "What do you like about it?"

"I'm still a girl," Mila said. "I want to feel like it."

Victor studied her with no change in expression. "How do you feel about the other programs?"

Mila shrugged. "They're fine. But I want this one."

So Victor gave her a program with spins, a long step sequence, and only three jumps, a combination easy enough that she can raise both her arms above her head as the rich vibrato of cello fills the air. Her other two costumes are bodysuits, but she has a skirted leotard cut low in front for the exhibition. Pale mesh rises to her throat from the crystal-studded black of the bodice, hinting at her cleavage; the skirt dips over her hips to emphasize the subtle curves there.

Most alphas peacock for the ones they want. Maybe that's what Mila is doing. She leans into the Ina Bauer, _want me, want me_ , her longing like an incantation.

Triple toe, double toe, double loop. Mila's feet are sure on the ice, but her heart feels like she left it in the air.

* * *

Sara skates second-to-last, between Victor and Yura. Mila's seen her skate this program before, of course—they were both at Skate America this year—but they'd both taken silver there and their gala skates were back-to-back after the intermission. Mila had been hot beneath her team jacket as sweat cooled on her brow, inexplicably shaky, drawing her skirt into her lap as she sat to watch.

This time, Mila's showered, her hair dried, and her restless fidgeting is entirely explicable. She tucks her hands between her thighs to keep from picking at her nailbeds. This narrow row of seats beside the announcers' box is empty except for Yakov texting his ex-wife, so there's no one here to tease her.

Usually, Sara skates to the greatest hits of Ladies' Figure Skating— _Romeo and Juliet_ , _Swan Lake_ —she's always had the grace to pull off grand arias, even when she struggled with technical elements. The song for her gala skate is no less grand, but the instrumentation is modern, the vocals slow and resonant. Sara's hair is braided into a crown, her costume a vivid red that matches her dainty gloves. Her jumps are all doubles; the focus is all the sinuous movement of her body, a scarlet slash across the ice.

As soon as the music ends, Mila's out of her seat. Yakov shoots her a questioning look. "I'll be right back," she lies. "I won't miss Victor."

Mila's a competitor, so her badge gets her everywhere. Sara's still in her skates backstage, carefully striding down the hall with her bouquet in her arms, no coach or brother in sight. "Mila!" she says, beaming. "Did you like it?"

"Of course I did," Mila says. "I like everything you do."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
